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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753448">bovaryser</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decemberist/pseuds/Decemberist'>Decemberist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Markiplier-fandom, Unus Annus-Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, crankgameplays-fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Death, Destiny, End of the World, Gen, Hallucinations, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:01:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,025</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753448</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decemberist/pseuds/Decemberist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i> You cannot outrun your ending.<i></i></i><br/>The fish tank bubbles. The light shifts and fluctuates, a dim, throbbing pink the color of the inside of some beastly maw, digesting each tick of the clock whole. </p><p><i>You have been down here for a while. You should wake up soon,<i></i></i> Ethan’s mirror says.<i> Before you forget how. </i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mark Fischbach/Amy Nelson, Mark Fischbach/Ethan Nestor, Unus/Annus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. another destiny, more satisfying than our own</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mark hasn’t seen Amy this happy in ages. He’d unlocked the door and swung it open, arms full of camera equipment, only for her to rocket into him, shrieking in delight. </p><p>“I got it! I got the approval! Mark, I got the approval!”</p><p>She flings her arms around his neck, shoving aside three bags and a tripod to sling him around in a circle. “It’s a go, we’re good to go!”</p><p>“Jesus-I-Amy, Amy, I can’t breathe, Amy help-!”</p><p>There’s a scatter of nails and here comes the dogs at full speed, Chica hollering at the top of her lungs in delight, Henry bringing up the rear with a mouthful of stuffed animal. They slip and slide on the hardwood floor, slamming into Amy’s back and slamming Mark into the wall, knocking the air out of his lungs and the last of the equipment to the floor with an ear-splitting crack. </p><p>“Amy-?”</p><p>Amy’s going a mile a minute. “I got the email earlier, I took a break to get some juice and it popped up on my phone-Dr. Simon approved my proposal, which means that-!”</p><p>Chica howls in delight and Mark gives up and joins the excitement. “They approved it? The whole thing? So that means that-?” </p><p>He dives to the left, just in time to bodily haul Chica away from the open door. Amy almost trips on Henry as she leans forward and hauls the door shut, dragging the cardboard box of batteries, tape and flashlights in with her foot. Chica flings herself at the door in one more attempt, but gives up and gallops away, careening down the hall and into the kitchen, barking happily. Henry’s vanished, no doubt back to his basket to harvest more toys, but at least the volume decreases some. </p><p>“-So that means that you got the filming rights, right? Like, the historical society said it was okay and everything?”</p><p>Amy laughs. “I haven’t got the hard copies, but I have to go in on Monday and they’ll go over the procedures and the keys and all that, but I think so, I really think so!”</p><p>“That’s fantastic, Amy, what-?”</p><p>Chica hurtles back down the hall, tiger toy in mouth, tail going a mile a minute. Amy barely has time to brace before the dog careens into her, flinging the soggy toy at her face. “Chica, Chica, stop, no, no jumping! No, it’s okay, it’s okay girl-!” She’s laughing too hard for Chica to take her commands seriously, and the dog tries for Mark next, barking. </p><p>“Okay, okay, no, down, get down, Chica, let’s get down, girl!”</p><p>Amy picks up the damp tiger and throws it into the kitchen and Chica spares Mark further kisses as she disappears around the corner at high speed. Amy turns to face him again, heaving a huge sigh, eyes sparkling with delight. “This is going to be so cool.”</p><p>Mark rubs the back of his neck and looks around the entryway-there’s cameras and camcorders and cords snaking all over. The main tripod had fallen on the stairs and slid down-there was now a scratch in the wood edging of the banister that probably wasn’t going to come out any time soon. “Yeah, it will-Amy, I’m so happy for you, you’ve been working on this project for ages.” </p><p>Amy makes a noise of agreement, bending down and helping him gather up scattered cords and rubber bands, tossing the green matted toad Henry had left aside. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get them all worked up.”</p><p>“It’s fine, I’ll throw them in the backyard and you can tell me what’s going on, yeah? Gosh I hope some of this shit didn’t break…”</p><p>“Oh no, I hope not, I-!”</p><p>“It’s fine, they’re all in cases, I’m sure they’re all fine. Look, just leave this stuff here, here comes Beeka-”</p><p>And there she is, careening back around the corner and getting ready for round number three, tongue lolling in delight. This time Mark gets her by her collar and down, leading her deeper into the house and through the sliding glass doors leading out to the pool. The sprinklers are on and the dog gone in an instant, a blur of blonde fur and drool on the pavement. </p><p>He sighs and slides the glass door shut. He’s going to have to dry her off really well before she’s allowed back in the house tonight-when she’s wet, Chica gets a distinct fish smell that can make it hard to sleep. Or breathe. </p><p>Amy dumps her pile of camera equipment on the coffee table and hops up on the bar counter, swinging her legs like she still has to send her excitement somewhere. “I mean, they approved the project, and I already talked to the studio, we can use the footage there too. It’s gonna be two birds with one stone.”</p><p>Mark walks over and leans against the counter. His back hurts from where the tripod dug in before it fell to the floor, and he hopes the auto-lock is working on his Tesla because his keys are nowhere to be found. “So what, you just need to get the schedule? I mean, we can do a catalogue of what we’ve got, kind of see where we’re at with equipment, but you wanted some fancy macro lenses, right?”</p><p>She nods, shaking her bangs out of her eyes. “Yeah, but I already talked to some people, I’m not too worried about that. We’ve got most of what we need, and a lot of the filming can be done beforehand, we really only need to plan out the interior shots closely, since they only gave me three days to shoot.”</p><p>Mark whistles, disappointed for her. So it’s not all good news. “I thought you asked for five days? You know, for staging and setup? Are we gonna run this all off of battery?”<br/>
Amy wrinkles her nose in commiseration. “I dunno, probably. I wanted five, but the email said that all crews are restricted-it’s some California conservation thing, it’s a historical site, which means you can only do so much in so many days before you’re kicked out by the state.”</p><p>“Do they count exterior shots in that?”</p><p>“No, that’s why I think it’s still gonna work out-” </p><p>As she talks, Mark turns to the fridge and pours some milk-it’s a hundred degrees in the shade outside and he’s been filming for four hours now. He can feel the burnt skin on his nose far too well.  </p><p>“-I’ll just make sure we can be on the property and just do the interview and stuff with the building in the background. If sound is too much trouble, we can always do studio sound, I think it’ll be fine.”</p><p>Amy’s been working on this for three months now-from inception to thesis to submission, it’s taken her the better part of a semester to convince her professor of the legitimacy of what she was proposing. It’s a good stepping stone, she said, for what I want to do with my thesis. This is just a warm-up. “So what do we need to do next?”</p><p>“You’re okay with helping?”</p><p>“Amy, how many times have you helped me with stuff? I’m ahead on recordings, I can make it work. I’d love to help. If nothing else, it’ll be cool to film, right?”</p><p>She laughs. “I thought you’d think it was silly.”</p><p>“I mean, yeah, I don’t believe any of it, but it’s cool, the unknown, you know? Besides, historical site, lots of b-roll, nice place to film, you know? Can always spare a few clips for intercuts, things like that. It sounds like fun.”</p><p>Amy heaves a sigh, but sounds pleased when she replies, “Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ve got it all planned-well, I mean, I am going to have it all planned out. We should be able to do it mostly by ourselves, and Kathryn already volunteered to help too, since she suggested a lot of things already. She kind of thinks of it like a mini-film and wants to try some techniques she’s read about. Can’t hurt, can it?”</p><p>Mark hums in agreement and opens the fridge again-yesterday’s beef stew is still wrapped up neatly in plastic wrap and ready for consumption. “Nah, and Kathryn’s brilliant, it’ll be a lot of fun. What are you going to do for talent?”</p><p>Amy watches as he pulls two bowls down and unwraps the stew. She hands him a spoon, and answers as he ladles it out. “Kathryn’s got somebody-when I told her about the idea she latched onto it right away, said he’d be great for it.”</p><p>“A spooky psychic? Just in time for Halloween.”</p><p>“Ha ha, you’re very funny, Mark. Very funny. Much laughter.”</p><p>“You and twenty seven million other people agree.. So what, is it a ghost hunter? Please tell me we’re interviewing a ghost hunter. I love ghost hunters.”</p><p>This is true. He is abnormally fond of Ghost Adventures and the other cheesy ghost stories they watch on the regular. His Youtube favorites list is full of them. </p><p>“Nah, Kathryn says he’s more like a medium, you know?”</p><p>“Please, please, dear God, please tell me we get to have a séance.”</p><p>She tosses the lid to the Tupperware at his head-he catches it in the last second. “If you’re going to help, you are going to have to behave and play nice with others.”</p><p>“I always play nice with others,” Mark reassures her, handing her her bowl of stew. “I am very charismatic.”</p><p>“Well, be nice. He’s agreed to be my guinea pig, so that’s earned him some politeness, yeah? Don’t be mean.”</p><p>“Amy, this project means a lot to you. I will be on my best behavior at all times. I’m not going to send you back to the drawing board by being a dick.”</p><p>She hums around a mouthful of broth. “Thanks, I-thanks. I know you wouldn’t. This just took forever to set up and is gonna be a blast to film, I want it to go well, you know?”</p><p>Mark joins her on the counter. Outside the back door, Chica is digging a hole, trying to uproot the sprinkler head, covered in mud up to her shoulders. “It’s gonna go more than well. It’ll be brilliant.”</p><p>She nods, scraping her bowl. “It’s gonna be so much fun, this will go well. I just know it.”</p><p>Outside, the sprinklers sputter and die. Chica celebrates her victory by rolling in the mud and grass clippings. There’s no salvaging her now-it’s gonna be a bath night. “You’ll be great. It’ll be great.” </p><p>Together, they watch Chica race her own shadow around the pool.</p><p>-</p><p>     Since Amy had returned to grad school for her masters, Mark hasn’t seen her in full creative mode for a while. A masters in psychology-with the implied understanding that a doctorate was on it’s heels-involved a lot of books and papers and letters, less and less of the digital and artistic world that she had been involved in for so long. It was a different kind of Amy; a more serious, more studious one; Mark tried to give her plenty of breathing space, calling on friends and coworkers to help him out with his own projects and filming. He’d liked college, and could appreciate the work she wanted to do; it seemed only fair to offer to help her when opportunity struck, after all the help she had given him over the years. </p><p>But it had been a while, really, to see her this enthused. By the time he was back from the gym, she was on the phone already, dogs happily crunching away at breakfast and a second pot of coffee already percolating, her voice going a mile a minute into speakerphone and she darted back and forth across the kitchen, spreading her piles of paper and tablets and cords further and further off the kitchen island. </p><p>Mark drops his gym bag on the floor and sits on one of the barstools, and just watches her flit from one thought to the next; she’s talking to Kathryn who breaks Amy’s unending stream of thought to chirp ‘Hello’ to Mark when he comes into view. He just waves and smiles, because Amy’s doing another lap of the kitchen already, weaving through the dogs and dog toys, a cup of coffee clutched in her hand. </p><p>“I’ve already started on a schedule-I figure we can get most of the work down before and in post-a lot of the shots can probably be perfected in post anyway, so we can have just a run of quick and dirty establishing shots for the first day. If we’re going to be shooting at night, it should probably be that first night, too, so we have enough time to review stuff and reshoot if we need any pickups, or if there’s a problem with lighting.”</p><p>“Yeah, you showed me the list,” Kathryn’s voice comes through speakerphone, loud and tinny. She’s making tea, apparently, because a kettle is whistling loudly in the background. It’s loud enough that Amy actually pauses, squinting at her phone, until the shrieking stops. Kathryn comes back on the line. “It’s pretty comprehensive. I think it’s gonna be more of a problem with sound than visuals.” </p><p>“Yeah, if it’s that bad we can probably re-record in a sound room and just synch the audio. But it would be better if we could get natural audio. Or at least, I’d prefer if we could get natural audio.”</p><p>A steaming mug of coffee is deposited in front of Mark; he waits until she circuits the room again to lean over the counter and peck a kiss on her cheek in thanks. Henry had finished eating by now; he wanders over and drops his chin on Mark’s knee; absently, Mark pets his ears. In front of him, in the mess of Amy’s handwriting, he sees something printed and neatly spaced-it’s her project proposal. He listens to her and Kathryn chat with half an ear, and flips through the proposal with his free hand. He’d read the rough outlines and first and second drafts, but this looks like a completed version, or at least one of the final rounds, if the notations by Amy’s lecturer are anything to go by. </p><p>
  <i> On the subject of fear: our conscious and unconscious mind-</i>
</p><p>Underneath is a round of scribbles-its illegible. Mark flips the page. Chica joined Henry, boxing her wet nose under Mark's knee. She hadn't forgiven him for bath time. </p><p>
  <i>What is fear? What can it tell us about-</i>
</p><p>
  <i>-triggering a fight or flight response, evolved to-</i>
</p><p>
  <i>-when we are asleep. But there are some people, all over the world and in all walks of life-</i>
</p><p>
  <i>-the theory of reincarnation-</i>
</p><p>
  <i>-if there really is an afterlife. A study conducted by Harvard University in 1982-</i>
</p><p>
  <i>-the idea that our preconceived notions about a person, place, object or idea, can influence how we respond to stimuli-</i>
</p><p>Katherine's voice cuts through Mark's thoughts. "We will have to work quickly if you've only got two months to edit and reshoot this. The weather is good this weekend. Is Mark on board?"</p><p>Amy flashes Mark a smile and slides another cup of coffee across the counter to him before taking another lap, sliding in her socks on the linoleum. "Yeah, Mark's been planning to help from the get go, he-"</p><p>"Hi Kathryn!" Mark adds at top volume. He believes in contribution. "I'll be Amy's wage slave. But like, for free."</p><p>Amy snorts and Kathryn cackles; over the sound of speakerphone static, another voice joins in, indistinguishable, but male. Amy laughs then, at whatever was said, and Mark flips the next page over idly. Nothing is typed, but instead there is a hand-drawn sketch of a long legged creature with pinwheel eyes. SLEEP PARALYSIS, the monster proclaims in cheerful bubble letters. The last ‘S’ is a sweet nineties S. </p><p>"If that works, then we can meet up Friday and scout locations. 7:00 a.m. good?"</p><p>"No," Mark offers, but is ignored.</p><p>Kathryn crackles an absent affirmative, and asks, "Hey, so do you guys want to come over for dinner on Thursday? We can do introductions and order pizza."</p><p>Amy raises her brows at Mark, inquiring. He gives her a thumbs up and shoves the sleep paralysis demon away. The next page is blank until he flips it. On the other side, neatly handwritten in minuscule letters:<i> i will always find you.</i></p><p>Mark's coffee is cold when he takes his next sip. </p><p>_</p><p>     Ethan wakes up six feet down, floating in crystal clear syrup the color of cherries and a broken D-chord on an old guitar. He can’t breathe-he’s drowning, slowly-as moon-shaped bubbles slide past his lips and float into the thick sound of piano music. Deep in the back of his mind, there is panic, but overlaying that is a deep, oppressive calm. There is a shaft of sunlight and he drifts, weightless, through motes of glowing dust and the pounding sound of his own heartbeat. Time goes on forever here; each second is measured and resounds in the drums of his ears as the ticking of some great, unfathomable clock. He could fight-struggle, breathe, try to swim-but he can feel crawling warm fingers prying open his mouth, and the rumble and purr of some great, sleeping beast. </p><p>He’s the waiting room of a doctor’s office, the nurses’ station empty, the lights out except for the purple-red glow of the fish tank. The chair feels hard and cold and he can breathe again; he exhales, almost as an afterthought. </p><p>The fish tank bubbles. </p><p>He closes his eyes. In the comfortable darkness behind his eyelids, the doorbell chimes once, a loud, green sound. </p><p>He can feel heat; when he exhales, his lungs burn like he’s breathing in a campfire. If he opens his eyes, he knows what he’ll see. He dozes in the quiet, watching blood thud through his own veins An old fashioned radiator kicks on somewhere in the building. The world smells like exhaust and something raw and old. A thumb rubs across his eyes, burning his skin. </p><p>When Ethan opens his eyes, he’s staring at himself, lit a toxic purple and a perfect match. He can feel the room filling up with gasoline-every time he blinks, his mimic follows, just a second behind. </p><p>“Is it going to hurt?” Ethan asked, throwing the words out into the empty room. His double is so close he can count it’s eyelashes and freckles, each imperfection in its skin highlighted like someone had turned the contrast up, up, up on a picture. </p><p>
  <i>Yes,<i> the voice said, from deep inside the chambers of his own heart.</i></i></p><p>When it-when <i>he<i>- blinks again there is blood, just a little, dripping down from the corner of it’s blue glass eye. Some dark, tarry liquid that smells like caramel. “It hurts to breathe.”</i></i></p><p>
  <i>You will bleed. You cannot outrun your ending. </i>
</p><p>The fish tank bubbles. The light shifts and fluctuates, a dim, throbbing pink the color of the inside of some beastly maw, digesting each tick of the clock whole. </p><p><i>You have been down here for a while. You should wake up soon,<i></i></i> Ethan’s mirror says.<i> Before you forget how. </i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. one man hit parade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's a blisteringly hot day in sunny California the second time that Ethan Nestor-Darling dies.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is a blisteringly hot day in sunny California the second time that Ethan Nestor-Darling dies. </p>
<p>It doesn’t even come as a surprise. </p>
<p>The roof of the car is hot to the touch, and he can feel it burning through his t-shirt and the back of his jeans. He can hear, distantly, the chatter of the 911 lady on the phone, talking to him. She keeps calling him Mr. Nestor. He would correct her, if he could summon up the energy to speak again.<br/>
According to his watch that he can see from the corner of his eye, left arm thrown over his aching stomach, it has been nine minutes since he had opened his car door, seen his own face in the rearview mirror, and lunged for his EpiPen. </p>
<p>The full-body shakes have set in now, and he’s shivering like it’s ten degrees below zero. The parking lot is huge-of course it is, it’s L.A., he lives in L.A. now and so does every other human being on the planet-and packed with cars as far as the eye can see. </p>
<p>Of course, he doesn’t see another person in any direction.</p>
<p>It had taken three attempts to get up on the car; the lady on the phone had been very confused at first, when he had breathlessly told her what he was doing. In her defense, it does sound like the ramblings of a terrified and poisoned mind. He’d had to explain it twice before she understood, but at least she had passed his location along to the ambulances heading his way. </p>
<p>Dear God, he was going to die in a parking lot because of some fucking salad. </p>
<p>He’s thrown up twice now, mostly stomach bile, and he can feel it clawing at this throat again, pressure building up in his chest. He feels like he’s swallowed a ball of slime, like there is a living frog trying to escape through his teeth. </p>
<p>“-Ethan? Ethan, you’ve got to stay awake, honey, you need to stay awake. Can you hear me?”</p>
<p>Ethan rouses himself slightly at her words; the initial panic has drained into a paralyzing, slow horror as his body twitches and convulses, hives burning down his arms and up his neck. He can feel his pulse beating behind his eyelids, in his lips, at his fingertips. </p>
<p>“Can you hear me? Mr. Nestor, I need you to stay awake, honey, can you say something? Anything at all, just let me know you can hear me, okay?”</p>
<p>Ethan can hear her-he tries to tell her, too, but his face is numb and all he can manage is a pained hissing sound. </p>
<p>“Mr. Nestor, I need you to breathe deeply, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. I’ve got three units headed your way, they’re almost there, but you’ve got to stay awake so they can help you. Can you say something? Let me know you can hear me.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He shuts his eyes tightly against the blinding sun. He’s too hot and he’s too cold as well-the shivering has turned into shudders, muscles wound tight to the point of pain. His ears are going funny now too: everything sounds hollow and far away. Absurdly, all he can hear is the woman on the phone and some fucking songbird, cheeping so loudly it hammers nails into his eardrums.<br/>
The EpiPen is wearing off. </p>
<p>Ethan draws in a deep, pained breath, and manages a lifeless “Yeah,” in answer to her question. She’s still going, talking a mile a minute, but she’s breaking up now, making less and less senses as TV static claws at his brain and stains the edges of his vision. </p>
<p>“-Can you tell me what your job is? What do you do? Are you from around here?”</p>
<p>Distantly, he knows she’s saying anything she can think of to prompt some kind of response. She didn’t seem to have heard him, because her tone is getting louder and more strident.<br/>

“What did you do today? Ethan, I need you to talk to me, okay? Tell me what you did today. Can you do that? I need you to say something, Mr. Nestor, let me know you’re still on the line with me, okay?”</p>
<p>He’s had an allergic reaction before, and he feels like he’s watching it happen from outside his own skull, looking down at his body on the roof of his own car. Last time it hadn’t lasted this long-his parents had given him an EpiPen and they’d lived all of a three minute drive to the hospital. The EpiPen hadn’t had time to wear off before a nurse had snapped an oxygen mask over his nose and stabbed a needle full of chemicals into the back of his hand. His memories were notoriously patchy, but he can remember her as clearly as if she were standing next to him now, explaining cheerily how the medicine was going to to work, and that he was in good hands. </p>
<p>Now, years later, he looked down at himself, and thought, <i> Oh, I’m really dying this time. </i></p>
<p>The woman on the phone was saying something, but he was beyond words. Static had taken over his ears, and the burning under his skin had subsided to numbness, spreading up his arms and legs and gripping his heart. He could feel it pounding between his own fingers. </p>
<p>One, two, three and...nothing. </p>
<p>_</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s looking at his own face in the mirror, in his grandmother’s sitting room in Maine. He’s sitting on the old floral easy chair. The carpet is that searing, lurid green that matched nothing else in the room, and let up puffs of cigarette smoke when stepped on. The yellow curtains are drawn to his left, but he vaguely feels like children are playing outside. On the other side of the china cabinet, across the room, the door is open a crack and he can hear voices in the kitchen. It sounds like his mother and his grandmother, talking about pancakes. </p>
<p>From the mirror, his own voice asks, “Are you awake?”</p>
<p>Ethan thinks for a moment, drowning in the smell of smoke and dried flowers and baby powder. “I-”</p>
<p>He has to swallow, his throat tight and dry. His voice sounds old, like he hasn’t used it in years. There aren’t any tattoos on his forearms. </p>
<p>“Wake up, Ethan.” His reflection says. “It’s time to wake up.”</p>
<p>“I’m awake,” he manages. Saying it out loud makes him feel dizzy, like the ceiling and floor have switched places. The voices in the kitchen have lost any reason-they sound like a radio, playing in a foreign language. </p>
<p>“That’s good,” his reflection says. “I missed you.”</p>
<p>“I missed you too,” Ethan says, his brain reeling. He’s been here before. But wait, no, that’s silly, of course he’s been here before. It’s his grandmother’s house. He’s been here a million times. He just wasn’t allowed in the sitting room. He and his brother were too rowdy...she was afraid that they would stain the carpeting with their muddy shoes, from playing in the creek outside. </p>
<p>His grandmother is dead. </p>
<p>The world around him warps and stretches-the three feet of carpet from him to the china cabinet tunnels into infinity, the 1960’s pink couch melting, losing form. </p>
<p>“Stay with me, Ethan,” he hears himself say, outside of his body. “You have been here before.”<br/>

He has been here before. There aren’t any children playing outside the room-outside there is nothing beyond a yawning blackness.<br/>

“We’ve done this before,” his voice continues, and when he looks up he sees himself, sitting in his grandmother’s old hand-carved rocking chair, wearing a black suit and tie. Ethan recognizes it. It’s what he’d worn to her funeral. Even his eyes look red and swollen from crying. </p>
<p>The world snaps back into place. It’s his grandmother’s sitting room. Light is coming in the window-there are children playing outside and he’s looking at himself.<br/>
His face feels itchy and sore. </p>
<p>“Why am I here?” he asks, his voice sounding small even to his own ears. “I thought...I thought that…”</p>
<p>“You’re on the way,” his reflection explains, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re in between here and there. Again. And I’m here to ask you a question, again.”<br/>
His head hurts. It’s pounding in his ears. His lips feel numb. “What is it?”</p>
<p>“Are you ready to go?”</p>
<p>The words are innocuous. In the kitchen, he can hear dog toenails clicking on faded linoleum. </p>
<p>He thinks about the pain, that he can feel in the back of his head. The dreadful choking sensation. The thickness in his chest and the hot, burning sun. </p>
<p>“No,” he hears himself say. “Not yet.”</p>
<p>His double has black eyes. He’d never noticed that before. He’d had this conversation before. He knows how it ends. His eyes are burning. He might be crying.<br/>

“Then you’re going to wake up, Ethan,” he hears himself say. There’s a strange echo in the room. “You’re going to wake up and it’s going to hurt, but you’re going to live.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says, his voice far away. “Okay.”</p>
<p>“But this time, you are going to do something for me.”</p>
<p>The room is melting, sliding away. The walls are gone now, and the sunlight is shining into empty darkness. There’s a klaxon bell ringing in his ears.</p>
<p>“Something for you?” he repeats, his voice small. “I don’t understand?”</p>
<p><i>I just want to live. God, I just want to breathe. </i><br/>
His double is the only thing left now, barely visible in the blackness, hands folded together. He’s wearing two rings and Ethan can feel them on his own fingers, heavy and secure. </p>
<p>“I need you to find someone for me,” his mirror says. “Someone very special. Someone I lost a long time ago. And I need you to bring them back.”</p>
<p>Ethan is hearing an ambulance, he finally realizes. And voices talking, and a monitor beeping. It’s so close, but it’s like listening with a glass to the door; warped and distorted. There are 7.5 billion people in the world, and for all he knows, no one exists beyond this instance flowing in the darkness. </p>
<p>“Who is it?”</p>
<p>“Bring them back here to me. You’ll know them, when you see them. Promise me, Ethan. Promise you’ll help me.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t have a choice. He can feel pressure on his sternum. Someone is trying to resuscitate him, six feet above them, in the sunlight. </p>
<p>“Okay,” he says, in a small voice. “I-okay. I will. I promise.”</p>
<p>“Good,” his mirror says, and reaches out. Cold fingers touch his cheek. "I'll see you soon."</p>
<p>_</p>
<p>A Hispanic woman is kneeling next to him. Through the fuzz in his eyes, he can see her smiling. </p>
<p>“Welcome back,” she says. </p>
<p>When he swallows, he can feel his heart beating again, ticking like a clock. He’s never been so relieved to pass out as he is now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Fun fact: I also require an EpiPen, and it sucks.<br/>You can tell this is an AU because in my world Ethan has two full tattoo sleeves. This is because I very much want a tattoo sleeve and am very much a coward. </p>
<p>Mwah.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I throw these words into the Void, in the name of Unus Annus. </p><p>It should be noted that I know fuck-all about A) grad school, B) Cameras and/or filming, C) requirements for either of the above listed items, and D) a whole bunch of other things that I put in here anyway. </p><p>mwah.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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